


Lee Shore

by i_claudia



Series: Check/Mate [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee shore: a shore lying on the leeward side of a ship (and onto which a ship could be blown).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lee Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Characters you recognise aren’t mine & never will be. This fiction was written for love, not for any sort of profit. Another part of the ~~salty~~ [jaunty uniformed gentleman universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/19642), because reasons. This is the wider story which sort of brackets [The Gentleman Barber](http://archiveofourown.org/works/411348), but you don't need to read that fic to understand what's happening.
> 
> Written with love for my dear flammablehat for being the reason most of this 'verse exists, and for everyone who's encouraged my ridiculous love affair with these boys, especially the fabulous lolafeist. ♥ ♥ ♥ you guys are the most amazing, okay.

“Bring her about, Mr Wolfe,” Merlin called, one eye on the signal from shore and the other on his new helmsman. “Carefully, now; mind the starboard leach.” Not for the first time, he damned the lingering fever that had finally claimed Thomson and fifteen more of his crew off the coast of Brazil; Thomson had been the finest helmsman Merlin had ever had the pleasure to command, with an entirely uncanny connection to the ship.

“Aye, sir,” Mr Wolfe replied, sweating despite the late spring chill, for it was his first time navigating a harbour with so many other ships, and he felt that all their crews must be watching his lubberly movements.

Merlin barely heard the answer. He was a man accustomed to obedience, and his attention was fixed on the signal from the harbourmaster—a signal which made him apprehensive, unable to help the thought that perhaps he had slipped; perhaps the wrong person had noticed something amiss; perhaps he had somehow given himself away—

“Mr Spicer,” said Merlin, and his lieutenant, who had been conferring quietly to one side with the quartermaster, came smartly to attention.

“Sir?”

“I shall need the launch readied at your earliest convenience,” Merlin told him, and Spicer nodded, for he, too, had seen the signal.

“Aye, captain.”

“You have the ship until my return,” Merlin said, and ignored the brief pang of panic which wondered if he should, indeed, return.

“Sir,” Mr Spicer began, “the men are surely keen to hear about their leave.” _Keen_ was perhaps too gentle a term for it—it had been nigh on a year and a half since they had seen so much as a distant speck of English shoreline, let alone stepped upon their home soil—but Spicer was a soft-spoken sort of fellow until battle roused his baser instincts. 

“I shall know more after seeing the harbourmaster,” Merlin said, smoothing an absent hand over his whiskers and wishing he had the time for a proper shave. “We have no orders as of yet; they may go ashore after the forenoon watch. The usual cautions to them, please.”

Spicer nodded his assent, and called for the launch; Merlin retired to his cabin, seizing the moment to retrieve his finer hat and his best coat, which had been newly brushed by his steward. He remained there, head bowed and his fingers tracing the brim of his hat, until he heard the piping of the launch, upon which he set his shoulders and strode back onto the deck, holding every inch of himself in command.

 

*

Arthur had never before known this deep an itch beneath his skin, had never been subject to a desperation so acute that it seemed to fuel a constant buzzing in his head and minute tremblings in all his limbs. Politics was no distraction, or perhaps merely the wrong sort of distraction; it only served to make him irritable. On too many mornings had he woken from dreams which arrived against his will, supplying his mind with all the very things he dared not think of while awake—and yet he had long since been too weak to resist dwelling on them, embellishing their finer details. He knew he should not so indulge his fancies, but hell and damn. He was a Pendragon, and not to be denied.

He also, in his quieter moments, knew deep within himself that he had never been much use in resisting hope, even one his mind had fashioned itself from the fragilest wisps of fancy.

The letter, when it arrived, had been nondescript; a bit stained from saltwater and travel, and torn about the corners. He knew well that he should burn it, but he carried it instead tucked close against his breast—a comfort, a bone-deep warmth against the lingering spring damp, for all that it was no more than a few lines of careful script. A casual reader, even one employed by His Majesty's best spies, would dismiss it out of hand as a note of no importance: it contained nothing incriminating or even moderately exciting, merely a pleasantry or two and a date hidden between the words. Arthur, though, had never been a casual reader, not when it came to these sorts of missives. He was sure his feet had not so much as brushed the earth for a fortnight after opening the letter—a letter from Merlin, and a promising one besides—and now he touched his jacket frequently, as if he could feel the stained paper burn where it lay hidden against his skin. The _Freya_ had been travelling for too long, far longer than anticipated, and now, Merlin said, her tired figurehead had turned at last for green and pleasant shores. 

The knowledge helped not at all with the tremors or the longing, but he found his irritation—briefly—significantly lessened, and he more openly allowed himself the indulgence of his dreams.

*

The cottage was distant, nowhere near any of Arthur's more usual haunts—and, more importantly, a full afternoon's ride from the nearest hamlet, the name of which no one who mattered had ever heard mentioned. It had been a decision made in haste, a happy accident in the tiresome and lengthy legal wrangling between four families; an argument over titles and heirs in which Arthur was only nominally involved. Yet after the cottage came into his possession—the relic of an ancient monk of an uncle thrice removed, a strange hermit who had left the solitude it provided only on the occasion of his death—in the final weeks before the _Freya_ 's predicted arrival, Arthur found it was all he could think on. 

He occupied himself in preparation, when he found he could not turn his thoughts from its unseen comforts: carefully arranging his affairs and ensuring he could not possibly be missed—ensuring that no one could even think to miss him—ensuring that not a single enterprising soul would dare to ask the questions which threatened the ruin of all he held most dear. The preparations strained his temper, which was far from charming at the best of times, and by the day word came that the _Freya_ had put in at Dover, none of the servants cared to find themselves on the same street as him, let alone the same room.

He could not, of course, run to the harbour or greet the ship at the first sign of her sail, much as he might wish to. Such a course would be disastrous, and however impetuous Arthur's nature was, he had never cared to intentionally court catastrophe. He sent an invitation instead, exactingly polite, extending his most cordial hospitality to each of the _Freya_ 's officers: a gesture which roused no more than the usual attention. It was well known that his adventures aboard the _Freya_ as a passenger had engendered a certain friendliness between himself and the wardroom, and beyond that, rumour claimed him as a particularly effective patron of the captain. 

The invitation was swiftly sent and even more swiftly accepted—even these men of the sea, who spent their lives on far waters and foreign soils, had oft heard the quality of the Pendragons' table spoken of with awe—and the following week found all but one of the officers at the doors of Arthur's home just before the appointed hour. (Mr Spicer had drawn the short straw and had, with his customary mild humour, stayed aboard in command of the ship.) Dr Williams had declined the invitation for his own reasons, but that, Merlin had reflected as he adjusted his cuffs before alighting from the carriage, was likely all to the best. 

It was to be a small party—though slightly larger than Arthur had at first anticipated, for to make doubly sure he raised no undue eyebrows he had taken the further measure of inviting those of his neighbors he found the least unbearable, as well as several more of the officers in port with whom he was acquainted—but a lively one, and not a one of the guests was disappointed by their host's welcome. None could have guessed that the elder Mr Pendragon had returned to London only that morning, or that Arthur had needed the full day to recover his spirits from the visit. He had left the house as soon as his father's carriage turned out of the drive, taking his favourite horse for a hard ride through the grounds of the estate and into the woods beyond, startling pheasants and sending the foxes to earth before the pounding hooves. It did not erase the weight of the words hanging on him, but it did some good toward restoring his temper. By the time of his guests' arrival he had been back for hours, immaculately dressed as he welcomed them to his home with every courtesy he could muster, not a trace of his previous ill humour to be found. 

The officers were pleased to find that he remembered not only their posts and names but their lives and families as well: he asked after wives and sweethearts, inquired as to whether Mr Spicer had fully recovered the use of his arm after his unfortunate encounter with French grapeshot, and listened to the answers with every appearance of rapt attention. Merlin, who knew him best, easily recognized the masked strain beneath his smile, but chose not to mention it, not wishing to draw attention either to Arthur's distraction or to his own.

Arthur looked well, Merlin thought; far better than he had the last time Merlin had seen him, when he had still winced from his wound when he believed no one to be watching. His middle was somewhat broader, perhaps—that would be from the winter's forced inactivity—but his cheeks were ruddy and his arms strong, the muscles of his shoulders set off nicely by the fit of his coat, specially made for the occasion. It was easy to see that he had done well for himself in the time they had been apart. Merlin, knowing the real danger in that line of thought, confined himself to studying the seams of the coat and admiring the ornaments in the room. He had been here before, once, but had not been much disposed at the time to take a proper account of his surroundings, occupied as he had been with other, more pressing matters—matters which were hardly fitting thoughts for polite company. Ornaments and seams were far safer things, and hardly threatened the tight control he had forced upon himself.

When the bell rang them into dinner, Merlin moved to take the seat closest to the door, but Arthur stopped him.

“Come, captain,” Arthur said in cheerful disapproval, “that's hardly a suitable place for a decorated hero, and I'm sure the others won't mind if I monopolize your conversation for the meal.”

Merlin was too well-trained to show his dismay, and smiled as his officers made way for him and the footman pulled out the chair to the right of Arthur's seat at the head of the table. There was a pretty girl across from him—he vaguely remembered her being introduced, possibly a Pendragon cousin of some sort—but it soon became apparent that she was too deeply engaged in conversation with Mr Slade, a surprisingly comely midshipman, to prove any danger.

“Now,” Arthur said, as he signalled for the first course, “Captain Emrys, I must ask—”

“Oh, but Lord Pendragon, haven't you heard?” Lady Gilbert—Lady Anne Gilbert, newly widowed and lately in town to visit the Admiral, who had been invited to the dinner but who had pleaded with some relief one of his frequent headaches and sent his stodgy elder son to accompany his niece instead— interrupted, leaning in from the other side of Merlin. “Our captain's gone up in the world; it's _Commodore_ Emrys, now.”

Merlin flushed, and determinedly did not look at Arthur, whom he suspected to be gaping.

“Never!” Arthur sounded pleased enough in his astonishment that Merlin risked a glance at him, to find him distinctly pink about the face. “I do declare, by Jove. Well done, sir. Commodore! I think,” Arthur added, thoughtful, “you may be the first Commodore the Pendragons have hosted at table in three generations.”

Merlin inclined his head. “The honour is mine,” he said, as diplomatically as he felt he could manage. “It gave me a shock, truly.”

“The pleasantest sort of one, I should imagine.”

“Assuredly,” Merlin said, for he was keenly aware that Lady Gilbert sat not two places down, her ear turned intently toward the conversation. “But a shock, nonetheless. I would never have expected it.”

Arthur leaned back from his plate, smoothing a hand down the front of his waistcoat; Merlin could plainly see the hurt which lingered below Arthur's surprise but there was little he could do to assuage it. “I shall attempt a clear account of how the thing happened, though I hardly know myself,” Merlin said, trying a smile. “Lord! I never imagined there should be such an interest in it; do you know, I have heard three different versions of the story today alone.” He could not dwell on the most relevant specifics in this company—the suddenness of it all, the rush of appointments such a promotion had carried in its wake and the lack of any spare moment to send a note telling Arthur of the news—but he did his best. 

“We were barely into the harbour when I received the summons,” he explained, and went on to recount how he had found the Admiral unexpectedly in port and in need of a bright young captain to promote, and of how Merlin's latest victory south of the Iberian Peninsula had put Merlin at the very head of the list. He did not mention the fear which had gripped with such iron talons at his heart when he first received the summons, or how his steps grew ever slower as he approached the Admiral's door. Those were unnecessary embellishments, better saved for a more appropriate—more private—moment. 

Arthur watched him closely as he spoke, watched as Merlin coloured and ducked his head. He was charmingly awkward in his modesty regarding the whole affair, and Arthur entertained the thought of reaching across and shaking Merlin bodily by the shoulders—it seemed the man was incapable of admitting his own worthiness for the post, and Arthur could not quite decide whether that was maddening or endearing. It provoked him, even as he felt fondness welling up to fill his lungs. 

Yet more maddening was the way Merlin smiled with the barest corners of his mouth, the surety of his hands as he sketched his story in the air, the elegant lines of his neck and the sweep of his hair across his nape. Arthur gestured for the next course, and the next, and though he knew he was staring, he could not make himself look away. Merlin—bless him, clever, quick, fearless Merlin—Merlin noticed his gaze, and flushed harder, and swallowed his mouthful of wine before clearing his throat repeatedly, running his thumb distractedly over the spaces where his missing fingers should be. 

“A toast,” Arthur proposed, raising his glass after the final course had been cleared. “To the Commodore.”

“Not the king?” one of Arthur's more trying neighbours called from the end of the table, prompting a general chuckle which swept the table. 

Arthur gave a show of appearing to think the proposal over. “We are related,” he mused. “Distant cousins, I believe; I shouldn't think he'd mind if a cousin broke with custom just this once. We are celebrating, after all—we shall plead special circumstances and beg for a royal dispensation.” He raised his glass again. “The Commodore.”

“The Commodore,” the gathered company chorused, and Arthur held Merlin's gaze as he drank.

“And now,” Merlin said, flustered and not quite able to hide it, not when his pulse was so high and thundered so in his ears, “His Majesty.”

“We wouldn't wish him to feel slighted,” Arthur agreed with a smile, and the party drank again. 

The toasts grew wilder—more traditionally nautical—after the ladies retired, and there was a brief argument as to whether it would be appropriate to toast a bloody war or sickly season, despite it not being a Thursday.

“Good lord,” Arthur said with mock outrage at the suggestion. “What a horrible thing to toast.”

“We can't all be as lucky as Commodore Emrys,” said Captain Duncan—a jovial man and commander of a smallish ship, the size of which frequently vexed him—jostling Merlin with a friendly elbow. “Some of us need a bit more help to encourage promotions.”

Merlin felt his face heat again. He could register the effects of the wine now, felt it running warm in his arms and chest, prickling along his spine and the shells of his ears. He could not stop himself from looking at Arthur, and every time he glanced that way he found Arthur staring at him, hot-eyed and achingly handsome; more than once, the thought crossed Merlin's mind that it was perhaps this gaze, rather than the wine, which made his head so light.

Arthur made no attempt to be near Merlin until after they had rejoined the ladies, when he judged that most everyone was engaged in their own conversations—though not so dispersed that they would pay no heed to the words he planned to have with Merlin, for it worked against his plans if no one heard what passed between them. 

“I hear your aunt has been ailing,” he said, carefully angling his body so that his words carried past Merlin's shoulder. “Have you heard from your cousin since coming ashore?”

Merlin gave him an impenetrable look, but much to Arthur's relief, he did not question the lie. “I have,” he replied. “She has been quite ill, I'm afraid, but I have no time to travel.”

He was saved the trouble of further reply by Lady Gilbert, who had been unabashedly eavesdropping. 

“Oh, Commodore, but I am sure you never said a thing about this to the Admiral. Is she dear to you?”

Merlin flicked a glance at Arthur from beneath his lashes. “Yes,” he said, after a moment of thought. “She is very dear. She helped to raise me, you see. I'm afraid I was the most unmanageable rascal when I was small; my poor mother needed the help.”

“But how awful! And you've not seen her?”

“No, madam,” Merlin said. “Not since she fell ill the first time—I never knew she was ailing until my cousin wrote to tell me. She doesn't like me to worry for her.”

He considered adding more, but Lady Gilbert needed no further encouragement. “You simply must have the time to see her,” she declared. “A week, at least. I shall speak to my uncle directly; I am sure he won't object, once the matter is explained.”

“I happen to be going north next week to visit one of my estates,” Arthur said, and the words slid easy as water from his tongue. “Should you be granted leave to visit her, I would be happy for the company as far as may be convenient for you.”

Merlin bowed his head and muttered that he would be much obliged, but Arthur paid little heed. He was satisfied, filled with a smug joy at the success of his scheme even as Lady Gilbert took the reins of conversation and monopolized Merlin for the better part of an hour. Merlin performed admirably, covering the lie so well that Arthur almost felt himself believing that Merlin did indeed have a dear, brave aunt lying at death's door. Lady Gilbert did not bother hiding the dampness the story brought to her eyes, and left declaring she would see to it that the proper orders arrived in the morning. 

The other guests soon followed her example, taking their leave with profuse thanks to the host and with that particular sense of warm content which is only ever attained following a party with fine conversation and finer food. Merlin took care not to be the last guest remaining, but still he found himself alone with Arthur, waiting in a corridor while a servant fetched his coat and hat. He did not know yet Arthur's full plan, but he thought he could guess; it was a foolish scheme and he well knew he should put a stop to it, but he found he wanted Arthur too much not to risk it. It took an alarming amount of trust, to follow Arthur as blindly as he had during their lie, and Merlin was still staggered at the fact that he had barely stopped to blink before doing so. 

The silence grew too long between them, and Merlin shifted on his feet, wishing for the comfort of a swaying deck. “Your house is far too large,” he said, attempting to jest. “If my coat is lost, I shall make sure my tailor bills you for the replacement.”

“And yet here I had convinced myself it has never before seemed so small,” said Arthur, and to any passing servant the words might have been unremarkable, but Merlin was close enough to see Arthur's face, and was fixed by the full force of Arthur's gaze. 

Merlin knew he could not do a thing about any of it, could not do any of the things he wished to, but desire burned unbearably in his gut regardless, a horrible thing, visceral and immediate. It had been more than a year since he had last seen Arthur, fourteen long months since he had last been in Arthur's bed, bidding Arthur bitter farewells for half the night before forcing himself to take his leave. He ached to reach for Arthur now, to skim his fingers across Arthur's lips and under his fine clothes—to draw Arthur close and kiss him, to bare his skin—to find if the taste of him had changed—

Merlin found, to his horror, that he had taken a halting step toward Arthur, and stopped himself from moving further only by a great effort of will. The corridor was deserted, true, but they were hardly hidden; at any moment a servant, a guest, one of his own officers might appear. He could not even risk brushing their fingers together to calm himself, and when he looked at Arthur's face he found that Arthur had closed his eyes and was breathing in slow, measured beats, similarly overcome. 

“Your coat, sir,” said the servant who had gone to fetch it, and Merlin quashed the urge to flinch, turning the movement into a nod. 

“My thanks,” he said. “Lord Pendragon—Arthur,” he corrected, upon seeing the flash in Arthur's eyes. “Your hospitality puts all others to shame, sir; I am afraid our humble ship's dinners quite pale in comparison.”

“I could not ask for better company than your officers,” Arthur said gallantly as Merlin accepted his hat and donned it. “You must return often; Pendragon House is always open to you.”

Merlin did not trust himself to speak, but gave a slight bow instead before he turned to leave.

Arthur followed him to the door. “My offer stands,” he said. “If you do visit your aunt your company would be welcome relief from the tedium of the road, should we travel the same direction.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, stepping into the night, then paused. “Arthur,” he said, half-turning, and stopped again, changing his mind. “Thank you.”

He turned on his heel abruptly and left without saying more, because there were servants standing to either side and he could bear Arthur's nearness no longer. He did his best not to think on it, pressing his flushed forehead hard against the side of the carriage which had waited for him and ignoring his officers' quiet conversation, but his furious desperation was a hard knot gathered tightly in his throat. His rooms, when he reached them, were silent and cold despite the warmth of the night, and he overturned two chairs and the ottoman in frustration before turning to his fiddle, tuning and retuning it through the long dark hours, lingering on mournful notes which never quite formed a tune. 

*

Arthur did not dare breathe easy until the port lay five miles behind them, so convinced was he that something would go awry, but he was sure Merlin never relaxed the whole of the first day they travelled together. Their conversation was quiet, brief—Merlin appeared wrapped in his own troubling thoughts, and Arthur did not like to disturb him, did not quite dare yet to reveal his plan in its entirety, when it felt like everything might still collapse. It was enough for him that they were together and that he need not worry if anyone might see the way his eyes caught and held on Merlin, the way his voice trembled when he spoke Merlin's name.

The innkeeper had known to expect them; he knew Arthur of old and had two rooms waiting for them when they dismounted, tired and dusty from the day of travel.

“You've no carriages now, my lord?” he asked Arthur, pursing his mouth in disapproval, and Arthur waved him away with a weary hand.

“I can hardly be expected to find any adventure in a _carriage_ , Geoffrey,” he said with a smile, affecting a cavalier tone. It was not quite a lie, after all. 

Geoffrey made a very clearly opinionated noise, but he ensured that hot water and a hotter supper were brought to both young gentlemen's rooms.

Arthur had not expected to spend the night with Merlin, of course, but he still found it a rude shock when Merlin closed his door firmly upon arriving, bidding Arthur a subdued good night, and did not open it again. His own room was the next in the hall, and he stood a long time staring at the wall separating them, finally knocking his head against the wood with a bitter sigh. There was nothing he could have hoped for, not in a small inn full of strangers, but he knew himself well enough to realise now that it had not stopped him hoping, and he wondered if he had been wrong about the entire enterprise. If, perhaps, Merlin's own feelings had cooled—it had been so long, after all, since they had been together last—such a waning of emotion was only natural, almost to be expected—he had not even asked Merlin's permission before sweeping him off on this ill-planned and reckless scheme—

He knocked his head against the wall again, pulling himself from his spiralling hysteria, and heard an echo of the sound from the other room. He tensed. Perhaps it was nothing. Or perhaps...Perhaps Merlin was standing on the other side, separated from Arthur by mere inches and a wooden wall. Merlin would have taken his coat off already, hanging it with care to be brushed. He would have his boots and his neckcloth off, as well; he would be standing in his bare feet, his shirt untucked and his hair damp at the ends from splashing his face and neck clean. 

Arthur bit his lip, and eased one hand under his clothes. Merlin liked to tease, to pepper Arthur with tiny, biting kisses while he slipped his fingers around Arthur's cock. Merlin's hand was smaller, rougher than Arthur's own, but it was easy to close his eyes and pretend, to believe as fiercely as he could that it was Merlin stroking him—that Merlin's breath was hot against his neck—that Merlin's hair was silky where it tangled around Arthur's fingers—that Merlin was _with_ him, mumbling choked syllables in Arthur's ear while he brought them both to the edge and over far too quickly.

Arthur had to cover his own mouth, biting at his own hand instead of Merlin's corded shoulder to stifle his stuttering cry. The noise had slipped out despite his best effort at silence, and Merlin heard it clearly where he stood listening, his ear pressed against the thin wall between them. A portion of himself—perhaps his better nature, perhaps merely his misguided conscience—was horrified at listening, at this betrayal of privacy, but he had been unable to stop himself. He had known he was lost the moment he heard the first soft sounds, and at Arthur's final, bitten cry he slid to his knees, shuddering, for he knew that noise; he should have _caused_ that noise. He wanted to break through the wall, to slam his door open before crashing through Arthur's own; he wanted to drink Arthur's every sound straight from his mouth, to touch and bite and scratch until there was no place on Arthur's skin that did not show his mark. 

Merlin took one hitching breath, then another, in a vain attempt at swallowing his wild temper; he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, pressing a hand to his erection, and did not move for a long time.

Arthur knew none of this, though, and after recovering himself somewhat lay very still on the bed the entire night, and did not sleep—could not sleep, not with his every thought concentrated on Merlin. He rose as early as possible, and was somewhat gratified to find Merlin also ready to depart, looking as haggard as Arthur had ever seen him. 

The simple breakfast Geoffrey provided was more than satisfactory, but both men breathed far easier once they had left the inn and all its inhabitants behind.

“We should be there before noon,” Arthur said, after they had ridden a mile. Merlin nodded, but did not ask where _there_ might be, only moved over on the road to allow a wagon to pass on the other side.

It was in fact just past noon by the time they turned off onto an overgrown lane, an entire morning of tense silence which only grew thicker as they rode the last three careful miles, skirting nettles and wild coltsfoot run amok. Arthur felt blinded, felt as if his entire being was concentrated on Merlin to the exclusion of all else; the entire green earth in springtime paled in comparison to the creases on Merlin's brow, the stretch of cloth around his thigh. 

“There it is,” Arthur said at last, his voice rasping through the nerves collected in his throat, and pointed. 

It was a small cottage, nestled comfortably in a natural clearing: one long, rambling storey draped in creeping vines, its shutters nearly obscured by the rioting blooms of the garden. The roof was low, and though Arthur had already seen it, had already inspected every inch of the property and entered the cottage to see the careless luxuriousness with which it had been furnished, approaching it now with Merlin robbed him of his words. It stood before them like something out of a children's tale; it seemed to shimmer at the edges, as if by stepping into the vision they might indeed step into a world apart from their own. 

Merlin reigned his horse in, staring, and the story came spilling out of Arthur in a rush: how the cottage had come to be his, how no one but the man who managed his accounts even knew of its existence. He told Merlin of the countless ideas he had turned over, the frustrating weeks he had spent sunk in melancholy thought until he hit upon a scheme which allowed them to be alone with no one questioning their absence. They were assured of solitude here—no one would look for them—certainly no one would think to look _here_ , of all places. 

He paused, at the end of it, and waited for Merlin to answer, to say anything at all. But Merlin said nothing, turning to look between Arthur and the cottage, and finally Arthur could bear it no longer. 

“Merlin,” he began, unsure if he should reach for Merlin's sleeve, try once more to bridge the gulf of space between them, but Merlin made a sudden movement, as if he had woken from a restless sleep.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, low. “Tell me there is a stable where I can get off of this damn horse and leave it safe for the next week; I cannot afford to have it wander off to be eaten by wolves but I will have to kiss you very soon, and I am very sure that once I start I shan't be able to stop.”

“There—yes,” Arthur said, and cleared his throat. “There is a stable. Behind the cottage.”

“Good,” Merlin said, and kicked his horse into a canter.

They were fastidious about the horses, both of them bending to the familiar motions of caring for the beasts and their tack, but they remained painfully aware of each other, the tiny movements they both made. Merlin nearly buckled when Arthur brushed his arm, reaching for the currycomb, but he stiffened his knees and folded his lips between his teeth and held himself firm until the work was done and Arthur had led him back into the sunshine.

“Arthur?” Merlin asked, when Arthur hesitated at the door. 

Arthur glanced at him, and gave a half-hearted smile. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It just feels—as if I've walked into a witch's spell, and the magic might break without a warning.”

Merlin knew the feeling well, but he had no patience for it, advancing until Arthur was backed up hard against the carved, heavy wood of the door. “Is there anyone but us who might break the spell?”

He was close enough to see Arthur swallow, to measure the minute movement as Arthur raised his chin. “There's no one within ten miles,” Arthur breathed, and Merlin broke.

“God,” Merlin said, pushing harder against him, feeling all at once the glorious terror of Arthur's body held close against his own. He raised his hands to plant them on either side of Arthur's head; could feel Arthur's nose brush his own—he knew his voice was breaking. “My God, I need—I have to get my hands on you, _Arthur_ —”

“Wait,” Arthur said, his own voice hoarse as he scrabbled behind him with the key, “wait, Merlin—”

“I am _finished_ with waiting,” Merlin growled, and felt the door give. He stepped forward with it, and they fell together over the lintel, ravenous. 

They made it no further than the doorway, Arthur sprawled beneath Merlin on the floor with half his buttons lost; he cared not a jot for dignity, not when Merlin was moaning against his lips, both of them rutting furiously without a thought for their clothes or the open door. Arthur felt a ragged catch in his throat, swallowed hard against it and blinked back against the shudders that threatened him, clutching instead at Merlin's warm back—concentrating his utmost attention on the slick lushness of Merlin's mouth, the weight of Merlin's body over him, the hot slide of Merlin's hips against his own—until Merlin groaned and jolted to his finish and Arthur could hold his defences up no longer.

They left their ruined clothes there, after, but closed the door, retreating to the wide bed that stood waiting to receive them, and slept some hours, their limbs tangled so that Arthur could hardly separate them—not that he wished to. He did not dream, and woke, with sleepy bemusement, to Merlin mouthing gentle patterns across his neck. 

Merlin pulled back for a proper look at Arthur when Arthur hummed and stretched beneath him.

“Good morning,” Arthur said, his confusion fading into something warmer and more secret, his voice scratchy.

“Afternoon,” Merlin corrected, and kissed him properly, one hand cradled against Arthur's cheek. “Perhaps evening, even,” he added when Arthur let him go enough to draw breath.

“Evening,” Arthur agreed. “Evening, with nowhere in the world to be.” He slipped his arm further around Merlin's back, smoothing his hand down the curve of it and counting the bump of every bone; Merlin shivered most agreeably beneath his touch, and shifted until he lay more fully over Arthur, his elbows braced by Arthur's ears.

“And no one to see,” Merlin said lightly, ignoring the way his heart skipped in his breast at the words.

Arthur cupped his arse with both hands, pulling Merlin more firmly to him, and kissed him again when Merlin gasped at the touch. Merlin gave in gladly to the kiss, opening his mouth to Arthur and arching into Arthur's hands, allowing his legs to spread wider beneath the teasing play of Arthur's fingers.

“I love you like this,” Arthur said, breathless as they broke the kiss. 

Merlin pushed his nose beneath Arthur's ear, lipped at the salt of Arthur's skin as he smiled. “Wanton?”

“ _Naked_ ,” Arthur said, with great feeling. “I forbid you to wear clothes.”

“I accept,” said Merlin, and moaned, short and low between his teeth. “But— _oh_ —only if you keep— _Arthur_.”

Arthur dragged his fingers slowly down the cleft of Merlin's arse, dipping them in one by one to barely brush across the skin hidden there, thoughtless until Merlin hissed and set his teeth into Arthur's throat, sucking a vicious mark just below his jaw. Arthur could not stop the breathy groan he made at that, sinking his fingers deep into Merlin's flesh while Merlin laved his tongue over the spot, satisfied. The rough slick heat of Merlin's mouth had wobbled Arthur, but he was not about to be undone. He raised his hand to Merlin's mouth, pushing at the plushness of his lips until Merlin sucked in a short, quiet breath and opened, allowing Arthur to slide two fingers past the sharpness of his teeth, his eyes never leaving Arthur's.

In any other context, Arthur was sure he would have felt foolish, but with Merlin over him, sucking at his fingers with a greed that set Arthur's own blood to racing, Arthur found that he felt himself scorched instead, dizzy as he pulled his hand gently free and left Merlin's mouth a mess. He tipped his chin up, caught Merlin's lip between his teeth as he reached down to press slick fingers against Merlin's most intimate parts. He could feel the wetness low on his belly where their cocks slipped together; in comparison his fingers were hardly more than damp as he spread Merlin open, rubbing at the coil of muscle which clenched tight against the intrusion. Merlin threw his head back, open-mouthed as Arthur slipped the barest tip of one finger inside him, and shuddered backward before thrusting down, his cock sliding easy in the mess on Arthur's stomach, and Arthur pushed his finger deeper, fascinated by the sight as Merlin fell apart. 

Merlin was cursing as would befit the coarsest sort of seaman, his chest heaving with shallow breath, and he cried out when Arthur reached out his other hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around Merlin's cock. Merlin shook, the cords on his neck standing out for a moment before he hung his head to pant in Arthur's ear, biting vicious words into Arthur's chest and collarbone; his mouth was slick and hot and filthy behind the edges of his teeth and the rasp of his beard, and Arthur bucked against him without thought when Merlin fastened his teeth deep in the soft muscle of Arthur's shoulder.

“I want to mark you,” Merlin said, voice ragged as he pulled away. “I wish for all the world to know you as mine, to count all the ways in which you belong to me, flesh of my flesh.” He punctuated his words with smaller bites, mindless in the pleasure of Arthur's touch and the delirious give of Arthur's skin beneath his mouth. Arthur struggled for breath and raised his hips again, his eyes rolling as he felt his own knuckles brush against his cock.

“Yours,” Arthur gasped, speeding his hand on Merlin's cock as Merlin bit again, the sharp shock of it fading to a heat which only spurred him on; he slipped another finger into Merlin and clung as Merlin cried out, driving himself further, faster, between Arthur's fingers in his arse, Arthur's hand upon his cock. “Yours,” Arthur said again, desperate—he needed Merlin to fall, yearned as a dying man yearns for water to see Merlin burn up and out for him—“Merlin, _yours_ ,” he repeated, and Merlin came with a sharp cry all over Arthur's chest.

Arthur could feel it hit his chin as it fell, as Merlin held himself rigid above Arthur and shuddered through the final throes. He could feel Merlin's seed covering his throat, his belly, his fingers, and he was able to hold back no more: he took himself in hand and in three strokes was arching up and coming too, laying new stripes across his body. Merlin lowered his head, and, with trembling strokes, licked him clean while Arthur lay beneath him and groaned, his body spent.

Merlin made as if to roll away, after, but Arthur with one hand grabbed his waist to stop him, pulling him instead down until he lay half over Arthur, his head pillowed beneath Arthur's chin so that his whiskers scratched softly at Arthur's chest. Merlin did not bother to resist. He merely grumbled and settled, moving the parts of his body in small increments until he found a position to his satisfaction, and they dozed again together.

They had no reason to venture further than the cottage walls when morning brought with it a steady rain; Arthur had taken the necessary steps to ensure the cottage was well-stocked. Neither one of them was much of a hand at the preparing of meals—they both far preferred the eating of them—but Merlin had some limited experience with a cookstove and quickly banished Arthur from the kitchen when it became apparent that Arthur had no great gift with either knives or flame. Merlin did not, to Arthur's disappointment, remain nude, but the loose shirt he had pulled on was easily enough removed, and Merlin found no great difficulty in discarding it as Arthur took him back to bed, leaving the remains of their breakfast scattered heedlessly across the floor. It was warm between the sheets, warmer still in the small spaces between their bodies, and the steady patter of raindrops in the gardens made the scene all the more intimate, as if the clouds themselves were a curtain pulled close around, protecting them. Arthur had no desire to break that curtain—indeed, he felt no desire to move further than the bed, with Merlin in easy reach. They passed the day almost without noticing it; the cottage, humble and draughty though it was, did possess this much magic hidden beneath its crumbling façade. 

Merlin, even more so than Arthur, was dizzy with the freedom he felt, being so far removed from every stricture which bound his hands and heart. He soaked in Arthur's presence, unfurling all his shaded corners to drink the warmth of Arthur's skin, his soul a flower that even in full bloom knew summer must eventually end. He did his best not to think on it, focusing his attentions on the moments as they passed: on reaching for Arthur's hand without fear; on falling asleep mid-afternoon, his head resting just above Arthur's knees; on waking up with Arthur wrapped snug around him, warmer and dearer than any blanket.

They ate in the garden, one afternoon, barely clothed, and Merlin fed Arthur from his fingers until Arthur's hunger was satisfied and an entirely different desire welled in him.

“Mm,” Arthur said, when he had finished the bit of cheese Merlin had pressed against his lips. “Another.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, slender fingers held suspended above the platter. “Insatiable.”

“You hardly know the half of it,” Arthur replied, and shifted his head until it lay more comfortably between Merlin's thighs. He allowed his mouth to drop open, a pointed demand.

“Oh,” Merlin murmured, his eyes never leaving Arthur's. “I wouldn't say that.” He selected another bit of cheese and dangled it over Arthur's face, lowering it fractionally until Arthur could stand it no longer and raised his head up, enfolding the cheese and half of Merlin's fingers in the hot dark of his mouth, his teeth just barely scraping along Merlin's skin as he stole the cheese from Merlin's grip, laving the pads of Merlin's fingers with his tongue as he chased the last lingering fragments. He could feel the tremble which ran through Merlin at that, could read the turn of Merlin's thoughts clearly in his face, and it was the work of a moment to turn himself over, reposition until his mouth hovered over what he truly wanted. 

Merlin's breath was coming quickly, and he nodded to Arthur, widening the sprawl of his legs. His chest was bare, his trousers loose and low around his hips. He looked fine, Arthur thought, without his whiskers. “Well,” he said, a challenge in his voice. “Go on, then.”

Arthur smiled, his look dark with promise, and pressed his face to the growing bulge in Merlin's groin, breathing hot and damp through the sturdy broadcloth until he could hear Merlin make a frustrated noise. It was simple enough to deal with the issue of the trousers, and then Merlin's cock was springing free near Arthur's face, and the scent of it hit Arthur as a blow. He found he had not the slightest patience for further teasing, and rose further up on his knees for an improved angle before opening his mouth around Merlin's length properly, sliding his tongue easily along it as Merlin jerked and swore. 

Merlin's taste was familiar, and Arthur was greedy for it, working Merlin as swiftly and as relentlessly as he knew how until his chin was wet from his efforts, his lips swollen and buzzing and every stray thought driven from his head. Merlin was agreeably noisy; he choked and gasped and pulled great tufts of grass from the lawn as he scrabbled for purchase, and his legs were restless, his knees bumping Arthur's sides as he writhed. Arthur had one hand wrapped around the base of Merlin's cock to aid him, and he could feel the slick running down his fingers as he sucked and lipped and drove Merlin into madness. The sensation was a heady one—he could not resist the temptation to brace himself with his free hand on Merlin's hip and move his wet fingers down further, dragging them until he could push at Merlin's arse, his opening still loose from that morning, before they'd breakfasted. 

Merlin arched suddenly at that, his breath a ragged sob, and it was nearly too much: Arthur was forced to ease off, to take a moment and a breath to recover before taking Merlin in again, stretching his lips and pushing until he could feel Merlin at the back of his throat, two of his fingers rubbing hard at the clenching muscle of Merlin's arse.

“Arthur,” Merlin was murmuring, his voice wrecked and hoarse and barely recognisable, “I—Lord Jesus, Arthur, _oh_ , I cannot—” His fingers locked hard in Arthur's hair, and Arthur would have smiled if he could—Merlin's words were blurring together, degenerating into desperate sounds and strangled endearments—he was close, so close, and Arthur would force him on and over the final edge—he could feel it approach, knew the end was nearly at hand—

It came suddenly, despite his anticipation, and though Merlin tugged weakly at him Arthur did not pull back until he had caught every drop of Merlin's release, swallowing it down with some difficulty before he let Merlin's cock slide from his lips and licked the stray drops from Merlin's skin as well as from his own. Merlin lay quiet beneath him, gazing at Arthur with a bleary smile, and when Arthur surged up to take his mouth in a bruising kiss, he opened without protest, licking his own bitter taste from Arthur's tongue.

“Merlin,” Arthur said as he broke away, for he was desperate, his own cock aching—leaking as he ground his hips along Merlin's thigh—and Merlin reached a hand up to smooth his fingers through the wreck of Arthur's hair.

“Please, joy,” he whispered, his voice still raw. “Please, I need you.”

Arthur tensed, and groaned, and pressed his head to Merlin's chest as they shifted. It was swift work, both of them eager in the familiar motions as they worked to free Arthur from his trousers; soon Arthur was rocking deep into Merlin as Merlin's head tipped back and his body opened, the desperation gone—subsumed beneath a far profounder desire for this to last, for them to stay here, like this, for hours, for days and years without measure. Arthur felt himself unravelling, and fought it desperately. He hitched Merlin's knee higher around his waist and drove his hips further, turning his face into the grass as if he might hide the emotions which threatened to spill forth from every pore. It was too much, all too much. He wanted this, wanted so badly he felt it as a festering wound—he wanted Merlin like this, in the open sunshine, Merlin trailing light fingers across his skin and whispering secrets into his ear, too close for even the most curious breeze to snatch them away.

They did not bother moving, when Arthur had shuddered and finished, though they knew they should; Arthur's cock was over-sensitive and he knew Merlin must be sore, but neither of them had the strength to separate their trembling limbs. Arthur regretted it later, after the sun had faded and he tried rolling onto his back only to find that he had been burned in an unfortunate and tender place, but Merlin laughed and soothed him with cool cloths, and after some thought even Arthur himself could not entirely begrudge the burn, being as it was the price of a perfect afternoon.

They lay side by side that night, their bodies humming and sated with contentment, and Arthur had nothing to blame but his own delirium for opening his mouth.

“I had a visit from my father.”

He did not have to look to know that Merlin had gone stiff beside him at the words; that much, at least, was clear as the tide.

“He believes I am a disgrace,” Arthur said, stumbling blindly on. “That I should be so far advanced in years and position and yet still a bachelor when there are no other sons to produce an heir.”

The quiet, which before had been so comfortable and close between them, had turned toward brittle; the silver song of the frogs in the chuckling stream, which had been soothing, became grating on the ears. Arthur waited, holding his breath, though to what end he could not have said.

It was Merlin who spoke at last. “Is that what this—all this—has been about?”

“Never.” Arthur raised himself on an elbow in a rush, desperate to clarify himself. “Merlin, no; do you truly think me that small and selfish? I have never—”

“Hush, dear heart,” Merlin said, soothing, the coolness vanished from his voice and replaced with his natural warmth, and Arthur took a breath. “Hush, I trust your word. We'll speak no more of this.”

That did not, Arthur thought, quite resolve the situation, but he allowed Merlin to pull him into a loose embrace, and when weariness spread through his limbs like lead, he did not resist its gentle tug.

*

It could not be the end of the matter, that much Arthur knew. He wished to follow Merlin's command, to let his worries die at least for this one charmed week, but as the days slipped through their fingers he found that the thing preyed on him, drawing his shoulders back and tight and distracting him from his best intentions. 

Merlin was clearing the table, placing the fruit they had not eaten back in the basket, and Arthur was watching him, watching the lamplight gild the lines of Merlin's body against the growing dark and feeling his heart clench tighter with fear as it beat away the last precious seconds of their time together. They had one day left, one last halcyon day before they must return: Arthur to his responsibilities and his public life, and Merlin to his ship; his new command which would take him again beyond Arthur's farthest reach. Arthur stared at his hand where it lay on the table, curled hard into a fist, and it took him no little effort to uncoil his muscles so he could lay his fingers flat. Merlin was humming again, a cheerful song which Arthur recognised, and Arthur felt it hook directly into his chest, sinking barbs beneath his unsettled skin.

“What if we were to come here again?” he asked, abrupt, staring at his fingers against the dark wooden whorls of the table. They had not bothered with a cloth that evening—they had barely bothered with cutlery.

He did not look up, but he knew that Merlin had stopped, knew that Merlin's hands must be cupped carefully around the basket of fruit. “You know we cannot.”

Arthur dug his fingertips hard into the table, working furiously to control his temper. Merlin had not, perhaps, answered the same question he had asked, but he knew himself—he was frustrated; he wished to throw things, to send precious vases crashing to the floor, and it was not fair to take that anger out on Merlin when none of it was his fault.

Or perhaps it was. The thought was reckless, intoxicating. Perhaps it was all Merlin's fault, all of it, and Arthur should blame him for it. Perhaps he should keep Merlin locked here, both of them hidden away until the world forgot about them both and Merlin could be truly _his_ at last.

“My father wishes me to marry within the year,” he announced, not bothering to stop the bitterness he felt from showing through the words. “The thing is as good as done; all the arrangements lack is a bride.”

He threw the words as a swordsman might hurl knives, and Merlin felt them as such, each one a dagger-blow to his heart. He braced himself, drawing himself tightly in until he could better control his breathing, the hot pressure building in his throat and chest; he swallowed it all down and closed his eyes. 

“Let's stay,” Arthur said, and Merlin's heart broke to hear him sound such, to hear Arthur tilting so dangerously close to pleading. “Merlin, stay with me; they could never find us here.”

“Arthur,” said Merlin, steeling himself to look directly at Arthur. Arthur's face was carved deep with longing—the same longing Merlin knew to be stamped upon his own features—and Merlin moved without forethought, sinking to his knees before Arthur. “I would, in an instant I would; but you know well how impossible it is.” 

Arthur looked away, his jaw working, and Merlin placed a careful hand on his thigh—to anchor himself as much as Arthur, for he felt a dangerous thing clawing at his ribs.

“You are my whole heart,” Arthur said quietly, and it was Merlin's turn to look away.

There were few things Merlin knew as certainly as this: that he would spill every drop of blood he possessed for Arthur, that every beat of his mortal heart echoed Arthur's name. But his heart, as quickly and as desperately as it beat, was not his own to give so free. Even his life's blood, the blood he would give up without a thought for this man before him, the man who burned so bright, so constant in his thoughts—his very blood ran salt: the cost of his bondage, the mark of his soul's covenant with the sea. He could not stay, though to his bones he wished it to be otherwise.

He had not meant to remain quiet so long, and it startled him when Arthur moved, brushing by him without a word and disappearing from the room. Merlin heard the door to the garden open, its creak a heavy sort of punctuation before the muted noises of the evening resumed their chorus. He sat back on his heels and dropped his chin, struggling for breath. The room was warm around him, the light from the lamp a steady comfort, and yet he could not stop himself from shivering; he leant until he could bury his face in his arms on the chair Arthur had been in and allowed himself to shake, to fall to as many pieces as he dared—for there was nothing else to be done.

Arthur had not gone far. Merlin found him by the rosebushes after a little time had passed and the violence of their earlier emotions had somewhat cooled. 

They stood in silence; Merlin knew his presence was not unmarked by Arthur, but he did not quite know what he should do.

“That is the Bear,” he said at last, for he had noticed that Arthur was looking upward, his gaze fixed upon the heavens. “The ancients steered their ships by its stars.”

Arthur drew an unsteady breath. “I know it is impossible,” he said, low; “I know it can never be. But Merlin—” He stopped as frustration welled in him again. “I cannot stop myself from _wanting_.”

“Arthur,” Merlin began helplessly, and Arthur broke, unable to help himself, his shoulders bowed as if beneath a heavy load.

“This—I cannot bear this longer. Do you know, Merlin? Can you even feel a fraction of this torment?”

Merlin reached out blindly for Arthur, overcome, and Arthur turned just as blindly into the touch—they crashed together, heedless of their knees and shoulders, and clung there, unwilling to separate. “You are my only joy,” Merlin said, for if nothing else he knew Arthur must hear that. “Every part of me aches with the same miserable desperation, Arthur, you must believe me.” Arthur did not speak—Merlin thought that perhaps he _could_ not—and Merlin spoke instead, a hopeless effort to fill the emptiness which yawned on either side of them. “We are the luckiest of men,” he murmured, though the words tore a hole in him. “We have had this much—so much more than most men could ever dream. Is that not enough? Can we not let this be enough for us?” 

Arthur still did not reply, but Merlin knew what he must be thinking, for the same knowledge was heavy in his own mind. It would never be enough, not while they both burned with such unquenchable thirst. Merlin turned his face in toward Arthur's ear, pressed close until his lips grazed Arthur's throat and he could feel the pulse wild and alive beneath the skin; and there they stood, entwined, each of them pushed far beyond the ability to voice the promises their hearts spoke witness to.


End file.
